


Mistaken Identity

by Seeroftodayandtomorrow



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeroftodayandtomorrow/pseuds/Seeroftodayandtomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When private investigator Blaine Anderson is hired to find the missing father of Kurt Hummel, he thinks the biggest challenge will be to keep out of the pants of his gorgeous client. Little does he know how much his personal life will be involved in -  and get messed up because of - his new case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistaken Identity

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I wrote for the 2014 Blaine big bang. I would like to thank marie-twist, who made the amazing art, as well as hkvoyage, my wonderful beta, who not only corrected my mistakes but also came up with the title and about half of the plot. This story wouldn’t exist without her.  
> Warnings for some angst, language, and mentions of guns.

Blaine felt like a character in a black-and-white movie as he looked out of the window into the dreary rain. Business was incredibly slow, but he had never been one to just go home and relax, especially not if his next meal was at stake.

He killed a few minutes playing Candy Crush on his phone, but soon found himself looking out of the window again. He needed a case soon, or he'd be back to waiting tables just to pay the rent. He was one of the best private investigators in the city; he knew it, the papers knew it, everyone knew it. So why didn't the clients run in his door?

Maybe there just wasn't anything happening at the moment, though that wasn't very probable. He'd had a few good cases a while back, and if he'd been better at saving, he'd have something to fall back on now.

Oh well. If something didn't come up soon, maybe he'd turn in early today after all. A movie, a pizza and a half-bottle of whiskey sounded about right.

 

The door opened. Blaine eyed the incoming guy and smiled slowly. Maybe his luck was about to change.

“You're gorgeous,” he greeted his prospective client. He gave the man a slow once-over: endless legs in tight jeans and half-unlaced boots. A slim, but muscled upper body. Gorgeous arms that were accentuated by the short-sleeved shirt and vest. A cute, freckled face, cool blue eyes and styled, chestnut hair. Very nice.

Blaine knew he was a gigantic flirt: he was also probably the only gay private eye in town. A lot of his female clients came to him because they knew he wouldn't grope them if they fainted, nor would he expect them to suck out the bullet if he was shot. As for the male clients.... well, most of them knew what they were getting into.

This one certainly did. He didn't bat an eye.

“Yeah, well, but I won't sit on your desk and flutter my lashes at you or faint in your arms, sorry.”

“A pity,” Blaine drawled, and it certainly was. The man was gorgeous indeed, all legs and hair and flawless pale skin.

“I've come to hire you,” the man said, his wry smile disappearing. “I don't sleep with people who work for me.”

“Maybe you should hire someone else, then,” Blaine said and could have kicked himself the same second. Flirting with a cute guy was one thing – chasing away a potential client was a wholly different matter.

“Maybe I should. And I will, at least if we don't get down to business soon.”

“Alright. I'll try to behave myself. So what brings you here?”

“My name is Kurt Hummel,” the man said and looked at him as if he expected to be recognized. And true, the name rang a bell, but Blaine couldn't really tell why he knew him. He motioned for the man to continue.

“My father was kidnapped.” It came out clipped; obviously, it was hard for the man to speak about this. Blaine was used to displays of emotions in his office, and he glanced up from his notes to see if he needed to hand out a tissue. The man's eyes were dry, but as he looked at him, he finally remembered where he knew him from.

“Your father's Burt Hummel, the presidential candidate,” he said, and his client nodded. “If he's been kidnapped, why isn't the press all over it?”

The man – Kurt, he reminded himself – shrugged. “We've somehow managed to keep it quiet. We told everyone he was on vacation. My stepmother hasn't left the house for days to make it look like she's gone with him.”

“So we have to act fast. There's no way this is gonna keep the sharks away for long.”

“That's right. We've already had some hassle with that. Furthermore, there's a very important campaign debate two weeks from now. If he misses that, he can just as well completely withdraw his candidacy, there's no way he'll be elected.”

“Hm,” Blaine said, scribbling on his notepad. He was totally professional now, the attraction to his client momentarily forgotten. “How do you know he was kidnapped?”

Kurt gave him a blank look. “He's gone, isn't he?”

Blaine sighed inwardly. It seemed completely clear to him, but to his clients, it was always the hardest part to understand that their spouses, friends or relatives might have left them of their own free will, not because of some outward force. He had lots of experience with this, but he still had to force himself not to let any exasperation show as he asked,

“Have you considered he might just have...left?”

But Kurt surprised him. Instead of indignantly refusing to even think about the idea, he said,

“Oh, that. Of course I have. It is very unlikely. Furthermore, there have been … threats.”

Blaine picked up his pen again. “What kind of threats?”

“Anonymous letters and phone calls. Emails sent from public places with addresses that were apparently deleted right after sending the mail. Mostly insults at his liberal politics. Slurs. Accusations that he's only gay friendly because his son is, and I quote, “a fucking fag who will go to hell together with all the other unnatural democrat assholes.” Threats that he would pay if he didn't change his stand.”

“Right,” Blaine said, tapping his pen on the edge of the desk. “I remember. You are 'the gay son'.”

Kurt had been in a number of interviews, supporting his father's political course, and most of them had been captioned 'Candidate Hummel's gay son'.

Kurt sat finally down in the visitor's chair in front of Blaine's desk, crossing his long legs.

“You just did your best to get me into your bed, and you just now remember I'm gay?”

Blaine winked at him. “You think that was my best? Babe, you ain't seen nothin' yet.”

* * *

 

That night at home, Blaine looked over his notes once more. It was an important case; Candidate Hummel's political career was in jeopardy, if hopefully not his life. Furthermore, Blaine had a personal interest in making sure Hummel was there for the debate. Hummel's most likely opponent was James Burke, a tea party Republican who was known for racist, sexist and homophobic platitudes that he masked as common sense, and though Blaine wasn't too political, that wasn't a man he wanted to have as his president.

Fortunately, he didn't doubt he could solve this case. Kurt had forwarded him the emails Burt Hummel had received, and he had, even after only a first read-through, noticed a few distinctive phrasings that indicated they were all written by the same person. He had sent them to his friend Brittany, although he hadn't much hope they were sent from a traceable IP address. Still, if anyone could find something, it was Brittany, whose mind worked in unusual ways but who could make a computer do anything she wanted. Maybe they would be lucky. Whoever they were, they seemed to be rather clumsy in their attempts to be sneaky and intimidating.

Blaine had few doubts that the biggest problem with this case would be to keep his hands away from Kurt's pants. He sighed and allowed himself a few moments of regret. But it was his own policy as well as Kurt's: no getting involved with people you worked with. It just made things too complicated, and the sex, no matter how good it might be, was never worth the trouble. When the case was over, however...he perked up at the thought. Then, anything was possible.

Until then, he would keep up his flirting. Not enough to be unprofessional, nor enough to annoy the guy, but enough to keep him aware of the possibilities.

Tomorrow, Kurt would take him to his father's house for further investigation. There was nothing else he could do today; it was late and he had no doubt the next days would be work-intensive. So he went to bed, made himself comfortable, but before he could stop himself, he began thinking about what he would do to Kurt the moment they would be out of Burt Hummel's sight after he had found him. Groaning, he wrapped his hand around his erection and came to thoughts of Kurt's mile-long legs.

Although that probably wasn't professional anymore.

* * *

 

“Please take your shoes off,” Kurt said, snickering. “My stepmom is very particular about that.”

Blaine shot him an incredulous look, but obediently toed off his shoes, discreetly checking that there were no holes in his socks. He felt slightly undignified, walking around just on socks, but Kurt unknowingly made up for it when he started to remove his own shoes and drew Blaine's attention to his feet. Wasn't there something that was said about a man with big feet? Blaine grinned.

Kurt looked at him from his bent position. “Hmm?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Blaine said, still grinning. “I'm just enjoying watching you take off your clothes.”

Kurt snorted. “Then make the most of it, for that shoe will be the last thing you will ever see me take off.”

He bent over a little more, wriggling his ass, before slowly and mock-seductively opening the laces of his left shoe, pulling it of and placing it on the floor. Then he straightened up and offered a flourished bow.

Blaine was laughing helplessly. He pulled himself together enough to give Kurt a slow clap.

“This will sustain me for the rest of my life,” he gushed, swooning with a hand over his heart.

“It will have to, “ Kurt said, then looked around and blushed. “Oh. Hi, Carole.”

“Kurt,” a middle-aged, pretty woman with short brown hair said, “Who's your friend?”

Blaine decided she had to be the stepmother. He struggled to school his features into a neutral expression and a professional smile. He held out his hand.

“My name is Blaine Anderson. Kurt has hired me to look into your husband's disappearance.”

“Oh. Welcome, Mr. Anderson, and thank you for your help,” she said, smiling and taking his hand. Then her gaze fell on his feet, and she looked confused. “May I ask why you are not wearing any shoes?”

Blaine stood, confused, while Kurt burst out laughing.

 

Kurt took him to his father's study. It had the typical look of the room of a person without the time or the inclination to do a lot of cleaning, but who wouldn't let others do the job for him. Piles of papers were everywhere, and as far as Blaine could see, that was the only filing system in evidence. He groaned inwardly. This could take some time.

“Okay,” he said, looking around. He stood for a few seconds, not knowing where to begin. Then he looked at Kurt. “You don't happen to have an idea where I should start looking, do you?”

They had some minor successes. Kurt was able to find the few threats to his father that were actual letters – clichéd, short messages that were typed or made up of cut-out newspaper letters. When Blaine had a message from Brittany saying that the IP of the emails could be traced to an online cafe in Brooklyn, he was nearly sure he was following a blind lead.

When Carole, Kurt and Blaine sat down together in the living room, that was the first thing he told them.

“Something like that – letters and mails that follow a discernible pattern, traceable IPs – is usually too good to be true. I won't deny that there are some very stupid criminals out there, but I don't think that's applicable in this case. I think that these are either completely unrelated to the kidnapping, which is unlikely but possible, or a distraction tactic to make us bark up the wrong tree.”

Kurt groaned. “You're kidding, right? Because if that's true, then that's exactly what we have been doing.”

Blaine smiled. “It's actually a good thing, in some ways. If my theory's correct, the perp's main objective is to play for time. And that means that they probably want to keep Mr Hummel in their custody until after the debate, so he'll miss it.”

“Why is that good?” Mrs Hummel asked.

He gave her an apologetic look. “It means they're not after his life,” he said gently.

She muffled a sob against her hand, and he started patting himself to find his handkerchief, wary of the crying that was about to start. But she just looked aside for a moment and waved at them to continue. Soon, Blaine observed, she followed the conversation once again with dry eyes and a calm demeanor.

“Okay,” Kurt said, sounding a little stressed. “I agree that this is a good thing, but I'd much rather believe that the kidnappers are just plain dumb. Why is that so improbable?”

“It's not easy to kidnap such a high-ranking politician as your father,” Blaine answered. “It should take a great deal of planning and organization, as he was probably guarded 24/7, wasn't he?”

Silence greeted him.

“Wasn't he?” Blaine repeated, but he had an idea where this was going.

More silence, accompanied by an awkward look between Kurt and his stepmother.

“He wasn't, was he?” Blaine said resignedly.

“Um, he....hates all this stuff. Security, watching what he says all the time. He said if he couldn't be free of all that at least once in a while, he'd go crazy. So, he used to ditch Security whenever he had a chance. We didn't like it, but there wasn't much we could do about it,” Kurt admitted sheepishly.

“Seems he should think about changing his job,” Blaine muttered, but took care nobody would hear him. Then he sighed and dragged his hands through his hair. “Okay. That doesn't really change anything, except that I will take care to check the source of the emails in case I'm wrong and the perps really are just stupid. And I'll want to talk to his security, so it'd be good if you could arrange that.”

* * *

 

He had played it cool in front of his clients, but when, as expected, his investigation of the cyber café yielded nothing (“We're very busy, sir. You can't expect us to remember all of our customers.” Didn't he just love this), he could have punched himself in the face for taking the bait.

To be completely honest? He had no idea what to do. He needed...something. An inspiration. A stroke of luck would do, too. And where was God when one needed him?

Ah, right. God was a close friend of his parents, and that was enough to keep as far away as he could.

 

Unfortunately, he could not avoid everything to do with his parents as easily as their friends.

Blaine spent some uncomfortable hours at his family's house for lunch and coffee on Saturday afternoon. He made awkward, polite conversation with his father about football and a case he had worked on a few months ago, and he ate too much lasagna and cake so that he could skip dinner and save a few bucks. It was a habit he had fallen into, and after all, the food and the money his mother would usually slip him when he left were his only reasons for coming.

It wasn't that he hated his family - although it very often felt that way - or that they didn't care about him – although they managed to leave that impression about 98% of the time. It was that they had absolutely nothing in common with him. Ever since he had come out and, even worse, refused to become a banker like his father and his father before him and so on, and had instead chosen to become a 'starveling' (his father's words) who actually cared for what he was doing, they had had nothing to talk about.

So Blaine would visit his parents about once a month, talk about nothing, eat too much food, and then go upstairs to his father's study, find his check book, fake his signature and donate a couple thousands to some cause he cared about but knew his father hated. He knew it was childish and not to forget illegal, but, well. It wasn't as if his parents would notice the money missing, anyway, and they donated a lot more money to crappy causes. Like the campaign of James Burke, as Blaine had discovered on his last visit. He had pleaded endlessly with his father to stop supporting the Republican candidate, but to no avail.

“I support him because he wants to lower taxes for the wealthy, Blaine,” his father had said. “You know I don't care about the gay thing.”

What his father hadn't understood, and would never understand, was that Blaine cared about 'the gay thing'.

 

He scowled when his father rose after dinner, and without a word of thanks or an offer to help with the dishes vanished into the living room to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of sherry as if he were the lord of the manor in some period drama. Blaine made a point of clearing the table and kissing his mother's cheek as he thanked her for the meal. It was the bane of his existence that he looked like his father; he didn't have to act like him, too.

He made his way upstairs, confident that for the moment, nobody would miss him. As usual, he found the checkbook without any problems and was, again, thankful for the fact that Anderson senior was too old-fashioned for online banking. The book was nearly empty. He had to skim almost till the end to find an empty check after pages and pages of copies of donations already made. He found a copy of a check of ten thousand dollars to a D. Karofsky and briefly wondered what organization this person stood for. An anti-abortion initiative, perhaps? Some church-based charity that along with the warm meals handed out a healthy portion of indoctrination?

He hesitated briefly and then chuckled, writing out a check for 5000 dollars to Burt Hummel's campaign. If nothing else, it would help pay his wages.

 

It was late when he said goodbye to his mother with a kiss on the cheek and to his father with a firm, masculine handshake (that he probably managed to ruin with the little finger-wriggle wave he gave when he got in the car, but well. That bridge had burned long ago.)

He had a meeting with Kurt and the guys of Mr. Hummel's security in a bar downtown. Kurt had explained that Puck and Shane, as they were apparently called, would be much more inclined to spend their Saturday night talking about work when they could do it in their favorite environment, and Blaine was not at all averse to the idea. After dealing with his parents for a whole afternoon, he was in dire need of a drink.

Lately, Blaine's facial muscles had either acquired a serious condition or a will of their own: whenever he thought about Kurt, his mouth began to smile of its own volition, and even with the lingering frustration that every visit with his parents left behind, Blaine's mood began to lift. Maybe he would even find out something that would help him with the case, but even if not (which seemed to be more usual at the moment), he got to spend the evening with Kurt in a gay-friendly biker bar, and after an afternoon of heteronormative upper class bourgeoisie, that was exactly what he needed.

The bar was crowded when he arrived a good twenty minutes late because of traffic, but he easily found Kurt, Shane and Puck at a table in the corner, right where he would have chosen to sit (a good spot to observe people, but be inconspicuous about it).

“Hi,” he said when he arrived at the table and stood a little awkwardly until Kurt rose politely. The other guys, though looking confused, followed suit, and _holy hell that guy was huge._

“Blaine, this is Shane and Puck, my dad's bodyguards,” Kurt said, and Blaine reluctantly tore his gaze away from the collarbone of the black guy called Shane to look into his face and smile, and then at the other guy who was not quite as big but equally intimidating. He had no problems imagining them in dark suits and sunglasses, though they were dressed much more casual.

“We went to high school together, “ Kurt explained. “When dad found out they had gone into security, he hired them right away.”

“So you're the ones who let Burt Hummel slip away, right?” he said, wanting to get right to the point while at the same time hoping he wouldn't get punched in the face for his efforts, but the bodyguards merely looked faintly contrite.

“Sorry, man,” the smaller one, Puck, said. “Burt's absolutely awful. He ditches us more often than I ditched high school! Wish someone had told me that to be a bodyguard means to be a babysitter as often as not.”

“But,” Shane added, “I believe we have made up for it. Great news, guys. The parking garage finally released the CCTV. They wouldn't let us take the tape, but we brought photos.”

_Thank you,_ Blaine thought. _Finally something. Please let me be able to actually see something..._

Shane pushed some print-outs over the table, black-and white photos that showed a grainy car with two grainy guys leaning against it, while a grainy Burt Hummel approached them. The date was right; it had to be right before the kidnapping. The guys leaning against the car were hard to identify, as they conveniently looked away from the surveillance camera, but there were some hints at least that would help him find them. One was black, one was white, both were on the heavier side, and they wore identical jackets that Blaine decided had to be some high school's letterman jackets. But high school students kidnapping a presidential candidate? He found it hard to believe.

“Dude, look at the pictures,” Puck said to Kurt, who had waited for Blaine to finish viewing them although he was clearly curious. “You won't believe who - “

“Guys,” Shane interrupted. “They're here. We have to go.”

Puck had stood up and looked around, and now he was in obvious security mode, shielding Kurt from the other patrons as he prepared to shepherd him out of the bar.

“Blaine,” he said. “The guys on the pictures. They're here, and they know us. We have to go.”

 

Blaine stood for a moment, confused at their hasty departure and not a little annoyed about the fact that he hadn't really had the opportunity to talk to Kurt. But it was part of his job to quickly adapt to strange situations. He sat down again, seemingly relaxed with his legs stretched out in front of him, when he saw two men who really looked suspiciously like the guys on the photos make their way to the bartender and order drinks. They weren't wearing their letterman jackets, but he recognized them nevertheless, and he could see they were indeed no high school students, but in their mid-twenties. He knew the type. Jocks, probably, with everything going on for them in high school but nothing after, trying to relive the good old times.

Blaine had just resigned to an evening of quiet observation, trying to listen in on conversations, maybe following them later and, in the worst case, a stakeout (they were the most boring) when one of the guys looked in his direction, waved, and nudged his companion, gesturing at – at him? He was pretty sure he had not seen them before in his life, except on the CCTV pictures. Still, they were making their way through the crowd, heading straight to his table.

“Hey, man. Mind if we sit with you?” one of them asked, already placing his beer on the table and sitting down.

“Anderson, right?” the other said, and Blaine mentally let his jaw drop open. On the outside, though, he was still completely relaxed, welcoming them at his table with a gesture and answering,

“Yeah. Blaine.”

They obviously knew him, and though he couldn't imagine how, he was determined not to let anything show.

“Dave. This is Azimio. Funny we meet you here. What were you talking to the fairy for?”

Blaine mentally made a list of the things he could conclude from that sentence.

One – they didn't know him, they knew of him. Still strange, but made him less vulnerable.

Two – he didn't laugh, but it was certainly a coincidence, and one that ultimately could only be good for him.

Three – they were homophobes. And idiots. This was the closest thing to a gay bar in the vicinity. Couldn't they see half the patrons were bears on the prowl?

Four – answer, don't show you're offended, don't out yourself.

“Um, yeah – he was chatting me up,” he said and felt like a traitor. Well, it was for a good cause, and he would make it up to Kurt later. Kiss his ass, if necessary, though probably unfortunately only in a figurative way.

“Did he come crying that his daddy is missing?” the other one – Azimio? snickered.

One – they didn't like Kurt.

Two – they had definitely something to do with the kidnapping.

Three – better buy them another beer.

“Actually, he mentioned it,” he said, signaling the waiter. Then he saw how Dave gave one of the bears an appreciative look. Maybe he wasn't quite so stupid. Maybe he planned to ditch his friend later and go home with someone else.

“So I take it you were paid?” he asked cautiously. He had to tread carefully here if he wanted to get anything.

“Yeah. As agreed, and very promptly. Thanks, man.”

One – they were doing the dirty work for someone else.

Two – thanks?

“Though we would've done it for less,” Azimio said, gaining a dirty look from his companion. “The old man didn't even put up much of a fight, and I really liked getting back at him. Finally. I'd have liked to punch him, though.”

They were even more stupid than he had thought.

“Getting back at him? What for?” he asked. Keep them talking.

Dave immediately launched into a narration of old grievances. “He attacked me once because I teased his son. Like, full-on, up against the wall. The guy's dangerous, man. A psychopath. And then, later, he wouldn't hire us as his security. Said he couldn't work with people that tormented his son. Took on Puck and Shane instead, the losers.” He snorted. “Much good did it do him. And now, they'll get fired too, for losing him.”

“Probably,” Blaine agreed, although he knew that no one would be fired. He wondered who had hired the two thugs. Someone rich, someone who didn't want Burt Hummel elected. He had the feeling it wouldn't go over well if he should ask, though, so he didn't. Most of the time, it paid off to listen to his intuition. Besides, they might be stupid and weirdly ready to tell him things they shouldn't be telling to anyone at all, but no one was _that_ stupid.

“So how did you get him to come with you?” he asked instead.

“Chloroform,” Azimio said as if there was no other possibility. “And then, when we got to the hotel, we just put his arms around us and told the concierge he was drunk. Worked pretty well.”

Still, that earned him an elbow in the ribs from Dave. Even for them, apparently, there were limitations about how much they would spill. It was probably too much to ask that they tell him exactly where they brought Burt. Still, it would give comfort to Kurt and Carole to know that he was in a hotel and not in some abandoned warehouse or something like that, and the knowledge would make his own search a lot easier.

Dave seemed to get antsy; he probably had a feeling that they had said too much.

“We should leave,” he said to Azimio. “If we get to Rick's party too late, the good beer will be gone.”

“The good girls, too,” Azimio agreed, then offered Blaine his hand to shake. “It was good to meet you, man.”

“Yeah, you too,“ Blaine said while watching Dave give the male half of the bar's patrons a regretful glance. He debated following them, but decided against it. It was improbable that they would go back to the hotel where they held Burt. He didn't know if they were still involved at all, but even if they were, someone else would guard him tonight. Besides, he was slightly drunk and in no real condition for driving.

 

At home, he made himself comfortable in bed before calling Kurt. It was – once again – not the most professional thing to do, but somehow he felt they were over that stage. He didn't really regard Kurt as a client anymore, though he couldn't say when or how that had happened. Maybe he never really had. He had never felt such a strong, instant attraction to anyone before, and it got increasingly tedious to always remind himself that feeling that way for a client was unprofessional, inappropriate, impractical, take your pick. So at some point, he just stopped. The case would be over in a week, one way or the other, and he could control himself for that long.

The thing was, he _liked_ Kurt. Not as a friend, nor as someone he wanted to get into his bed as soon as possible (though he did), but _like_ liked (and didn't that feel like he was thirteen and having his first crush?). He hadn't chosen this; in his experience, like-liking people was a damned nuisance and a generally very bad idea. But what could he do? He couldn't even explain why he liked Kurt, not really. There was the part that he was gorgeous, yes, but that wasn't the only thing. He had come to Blaine for help, and yet he never seemed needy or anything but strong. He held himself, gave back as good as he got from Blaine and yet never made the rejections sting. Or made them seem like rejections, really. Or was that his heart speaking again? It seemed to do that a lot, these days, and somehow it always made him listen. His brain, on the other hand, tried to tell him that he didn't really know Kurt that well, nor had they spent much time together, but that he had become pretty good at ignoring. After all, logic had nothing to do with this.

He sighed, dialing Kurt's number. This case was a mess, in more ways than one, but at least he had something good to tell now.

When Kurt picked up, he immediately started asking questions, and Blaine answered to the best of his ability. He had gathered that Kurt knew the guys, but he wasn't prepared for what followed.

“He was the first guy who kissed me, you know.”

“Who, Dave? I knew he was gay! Wouldn't have thought he was your type, though. And in the closet, and all. How was it?”

Blaine was rambling a little, and knew it. He was just horrified of the thought of Kurt with the burly, slightly stupid, closeted Dave. And afraid that Kurt's type was really big ex–football players rather than smallish private investigators with a secret indulgence for bow ties and hair gel.

“It was – hard, gross and completely against my will,” Kurt answered.

“Oh – shit. I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah. So, we've never been friends, Dave and I. But I'd never have imagined he'd do something like this.”

“He was paid, and quite handsomely, I understand. Someone different is the brains behind all of this. We'll find out who, but that can wait. First priority is to get your father home safely. So, tomorrow, I'm going to call all of the hotels in the city and ask if they had someone drunk come in on Tuesday who hasn't left yet.”

“All of the hotels? Well, I wish you fun with that.”

“Well, I don't suppose they've put him in the Ritz, so I'll be trying the cheaper hotels first, and hopefully he won't be in the very last hotel on my list.”

“I could help...”

“It's my job, Kurt. But, if I have no luck after, let's say, a hundred calls, I'll reconsider your offer. I'll probably come begging on my knees, to be honest.”

“I'd like to see you on your knees very much.” Kurt laughed, but was there a hint of something else as well?

“I could beg now, if you want to...” Or do something else, when he was down there already. Apparently, when it came to Kurt, Blaine had no pride left. Though it was probably too much to hope that Kurt would actually take him up on that offer.

“Do you want to beg me to hang up the phone so you can go to sleep?” Kurt asked, but Blaine was quick to decline.

“No, I want to keep talking to you, if you're not too tired.”

“I'm not tired. What do you want to talk about?”

“Hmm...what are you wearing?”

Kurt snorted. “A corset and a top hat.”

“Ooh, that's sexy.”

“How did you suspect Dave was gay, anyway? Did he hit on you?” Was there jealousy in Kurt's voice?

“No, actually, he didn't. He quite unsubtly ogled the men in the bar while acting the homophobe. It wasn't enough to be sure, but enough to suspect something. So he's in the closet now, and he was in the closet in high school, right? One could almost feel sorry for him.”

“Yeah, I pitied him immensely when I wasn't too busy fearing for my life. A friend of mine said he would be one to marry a woman and then hook up with the father of one of his kids' classmates. Though now, he seems to at least admit to himself that he's gay.”

“And I don't think he'll have to wait so long to hook up. I mean, he may be in the closet, but it's not like he's alone in there, you know?”

“Oh, I don't doubt he has his share of fun now. But could we stop talking about Dave, please? It's really hard for me to have even the slightest amount of sympathy for him at the moment.”

“Right, sorry.”

Eventually, they had to hang up. Blaine didn't want to, but he had run out of things to talk about, and it had been increasingly hard to suppress his yawns, as it was really late. As soon as he had put the phone on his nightstand, though, he thought of something he wanted to ask Kurt, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep before he had done it. He wrestled with himself a few moments, but in the end dialed Kurt's number again before he lost courage.

“Missed me, did you?” Kurt's voice sounded, thankfully, more amused than annoyed.

“Couldn't bear it anymore,” Blaine answered in tone, but then grew serious. “I wanted to ask you.....when this is over, when you're not my client anymore, would you go out with me? On a date?”

Silence. _Don't panic, Blaine, he just needs time to think. Why does he need time to think?_

“Um....I like you, Blaine, I really do, but at the moment, I just can't think about that the way I should. Would you maybe....ask me again when my dad is back?”

_It's not a no._

“Sure. Whatever you want,” Blaine said and tried not to sound hurt. It was enough. It had to be.

* * *

 

The next day, he found out he had considerably overestimated his tolerance for frustrating phone calls. After the tenth variation of “I'm sorry, sir, I can't give details about our residents” (one of which was “Dude, I can't tell you,” and one “Yeah, right”), he was ready to throw his phone against the wall. He had even made up a story about his 'missing friend' being unaware of his surroundings and needing medication, but to no avail. Asking Kurt for help was tempting, but he felt a little awkward about calling him, and anyway, he probably wouldn't have any luck either.

Then he had an idea. His friend Marley owned a restaurant in a neighborhood with a lot of hotels. She was very observant and her mom, who worked as a chef in the place, was a gossip. It was a long shot, but maybe...

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Blaine, to what do I owe this honor?”

“I need a favor.”

“I figured, I just didn't want to ask what I could do for you right away.”

Blaine cringed a little and once again resolved to call his friends socially from time to time and not only if he needed their help. Then he described the situation.

“Last Tuesday, a man appearing drunk, supported by two others, hasn't left since. Got it. Let me ask mom, I'll call you back.”

 

It took a while. Blaine sat around, making idle plans for how to get Burt out that were of no use as long as he didn't know the particulars, feeling generally useless and fretting about either the case or his relationship with Kurt.

It had been stupid to ask him for a date. It had been an idiotic, impulsive decision that might cost him everything in the end, the flirtatious, easy-going friendship he had with Kurt, and the case if he didn't manage to get his bearings back fast and concentrate on work.

Finally, the doorbell released him from his worries. He opened the door and was immediately ambushed by someone who threw himself into his arms and whom he had just enough time to recognize as Kurt.

He didn't even care why Kurt was hugging him. He buried his face in Kurt's neck and breathed him in, enjoying the embrace until the inevitable moment when Kurt would draw back and tell him that Burt had come home or something like that. Which would be great. Absolutely wonderful, but not....he didn't allow himself to finish the thought, but instead gently pulled away from Kurt.

“What...why...” he managed eloquently, but Kurt just smiled at him, a radiant smile that should be able to cure diseases or chase away rain clouds.

“I've changed my mind. I've decided to stop thinking and just...do what feels right, you know? And what feels right is this.”

Blaine still hadn't wrapped his mind around what was happening and opened his mouth to ask, but was silenced immediately by Kurt's lips on his. It wasn't a hesitant kiss, either; Kurt immediately slipped his tongue between Blaine's lips, kicked the door shut behind him and gently but firmly crowded Blaine against the wall. He then explored Blaine's lips and mouth with leisure, holding his head in both hands so he couldn't move away.

Which he didn't want to.

It took Blaine a few moments to overcome his shock and actually participate in the kiss, but this he knew from the start. He did not want to move away, on the contrary, he could be perfectly happy if this kiss went on forever.

It couldn't, though. At some point they had to stop to breathe, and Blaine used the moment to get back his bearings.

“You know this goes against all of my principles, don't you?” he whispered, licking his lips as if chasing Kurt's taste.

“You've got principles?” Kurt teased, but Blaine could see that he was slightly out of breath, too.

“A few,” he answered, taking Kurt by the hand and leading him into the living room towards the couch. If they were going to make out, they could just as well be comfortable, and yet the couch was a lot less suggestive than the bed.

“The main one being that I don't date my clients. But I don't care anymore.”

“It's only a few days now, one way or the other. In fact, if you can get my dad out in time, I invite you, as our first date, to watch the debate with me. It's not very romantic, but it'll round things up nicely. If you don't get him out in time for the debate, I'm afraid dinner and a movie will have to do.”

“Wait – you'd still go out with me if I fail?”

“I'd rather I didn't have to,” Kurt said with a shrug, “But I don't base my affections on success, you know.”

Blaine just had to kiss him then, and it was good that they were already sitting, because his knees got weak rather quickly.

“Of course, if you did succeed, there'd be rather interesting ways I could show you my gratitude,” Kurt said, and Blaine could feel him laughing against his neck.

“At this point, I'm all for you just paying me in favors,” Blaine said, going in for another kiss as his phone rang.

Groaning, he gave Kurt an apologetic look.

“I'm sorry, I'm kind of expecting a call, I have to take this.”

It was no easy feat to get his phone out of his jeans pocket, as they had gotten somewhat tight in the last few minutes, but he managed to take the call before it went to voicemail. He looked frantically for pen and paper and started taking notes, only occasionally humming in response or asking a question. Then he hung up and turned back to Kurt.

“I know where he is.”

* * *

 

Marley had a friend who worked as a chamber maid in one of the hotels in the vicinity, and she readily told her all about the men who had arrived last Tuesday, how only one of the men ever left the room, and how she hadn't been allowed to clean it all week. The best thing, however, was that Marley recognized the name of the hotel and the room number, checked her orders and saw that every day, half past twelve like clockwork, she delivered a chicken salad and a bacon sandwich to the room.

“One for your dad, one for whoever guards him. Which order do you think is for your dad?”

“I should hope the chicken salad,“ Kurt said. “He had a heart attack a few years back, he can't eat that much bacon.”

“Okay, but he ditches his security. Can we assume he's being sensible with his eating?”

“He's been quite good after he got used to it. A lot of grumbling, but not much cheating. I don't think he'd start doing that now, when he's practically a prisoner.”

“Right. So the bacon sandwich is for the guard; if not, your dad is going to have a bad case of diarrhea as a punishment.”

Kurt gave him a look. “What is your plan?” he asked suspiciously.

 

The next day, at half past twelve, Marley delivered a chicken salad and a bacon sandwich strongly laced with laxative to the hotel room Burt Hummel and his as yet unknown guard had been living in for the last week. A quarter of an hour later, when he heard hurried footsteps and a door banged shut, Blaine used his credit card to break the cheap lock of the cheap hotel room door, and slipped inside. Burt Hummel sat on the bed, watching some game on TV, looking utterly bored. He looked up when Blaine approached and muted the TV.

“What do you want?” he asked brusquely.

Blaine wondered a little about the cold welcome. He would have thought that someone stuck in a hotel room for the past week would have been more excited about seeing an unknown face. Well, or maybe seeing nothing but these walls made it a little harder to get excited about anything.

Blaine pressed a finger to his lips, then took the remote from Burt and switched the sound back on, making it a little louder in the process so that they would be harder to hear in the bathroom.

“My name is Blaine Anderson. I'm the private investigator hired by your family to find you. I have a car waiting for you outside, so if you'll come with me, I'll take you home.”

Burt made no move.

“Mr. Hummel, please,” Blaine tried again. “We have to hurry. Your guard will probably be...occupied for some time, but we have no way of knowing how long. Please come with me. Your family is worried.”

“Should have thought of that when you kidnapped me in the first place. You think you're very funny, don't you? I can, to some extent, comprehend why you've kidnapped me in the first place, though how somebody can do that and still think of themselves worthy to represent the American people escapes me. But what do you gain from mocking me? Or are you thinking you might just as well have some fun with me while I'm here?”

Burt's voice had grown louder and louder while he spoke. There was no way the guard hadn't heard them yet, and Blaine slowly started to panic. He had no idea why Burt was so suspicious, why he didn't believe that Blaine really simply was here to get him out. Listening for a toilet flushing, footsteps or a door opening, he began to frantically gather Burt's things that were scattered all over the room.

“Please, come with me now,” he pleaded. “I don't understand why you think I'm mocking you, but we can talk about that later. We really, really have to go now. “

Hurriedly, he opened the tiny wardrobe in the room. Patting the coats hanging in it, he retrieved the gun from the pocket of the guard's expensive-looking coat and put it in his own. Then he pulled up his phone. Keeping one eye on the bathroom door, he scrolled to Kurt's contact info and handed the phone to Burt.

“Call your son. Ask him. Hopefully you'll believe him.”

Then the bathroom door opened. Blaine drew the gun and aimed it at the man coming out, who was looking down fastening his belt. But when the guard looked up, Blaine lowered the gun, shocked.

“Dad?” he choked.

* * *

 

There it was, the explanation to everything, the part that somehow had always escaped him. The reason for Dave and Azimio confiding in him so easily. The reason for Burt not believing him, not going with him. They must have thought him involved because he looked so much like his father, and most families probably would work together on things like this. At least that was what people would think.

There had been clues for all of this, puzzle pieces he had not put together. But how could he have anticipated this? How could he have known that his father, that well-known, well-respected Jonathan Francis Anderson would be involved in something like this? It wasn't like Blaine would put anything illegal past his father. A little fiscal fraud, sure. Maybe even some blackmail if necessary. But this? Something so...crude...as a kidnapping? Something that would require him to spend his days sitting in a cheap hotel room, guarding his victim, only for....For what?

“Why?” was all he managed. He was shaken to the bone. Vaguely, he saw his father with an expression that probably matched his own, an open-mouthed, wide-eyed look of disbelief that was comical in a cartoon-ish way. Burt was watching them, confused, his face guarded, the phone in his hand.

“Son...,” his father said, and...no. He didn't need that connection right now.

“Don't call me that,” he said. “You usually don't acknowledge it, so why start now? Just...just tell me why you would do something like this.”

“You're acting like I'm a super villain or something,” his father said with a disdainful little smile. “No one has been hurt, no one will be hurt. It was just a question of whether I want Mr Hummel to be president or not. He was leading the polls. What was I supposed to do?”

“Accept that your candidate is going to lose, and move on?”

“Andersons don't just give up, Blaine. I've tried to teach you that for a long time, but as was the case with a lot of things I tried to teach you, you just didn't listen.”

“Does mom know about all of this?”

“Your mother? Of course not. She was of the opinion that I carried my support for candidate Burke too far already with all the money I donated to his campaign. I don't think she'd approve of this.”

Blaine was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing, but tried to be level-headed. He turned to Mr. Hummel, who was still sitting on the bed, and asked,

“Do you want to call the police?”

After a moment's pause, Burt shook his head. “I understand my family has gone to some lengths to avoid getting the police involved. I think I'd like to keep it that way. What I would like to know, though, is if Mr Burke had something to do with that.”

Blaine's father laughed. “He's much too honorable for that. Once, when he was told the survey results, he said, “I wish someone would just kidnap him or something.” He was joking, but it was an inspiration nonetheless.”

Blaine was somewhat disappointed that apparently his father was not going to jail, though at the same time he was relieved because of his mother.

“So you're getting out unscathed,” he remarked. “Though not completely. I'm aware how that sounds, but I'm telling mom. And I don't want anything to do with you anymore. I'll arrange something with mom so I'll still see her, but not you. Not ever.”

Mr Anderson looked less shocked by this announcement than Mr Hummel.

“Just a minute,” Burt said. “You're saying you had nothing to do with this?”

“Absolutely,” Blaine confirmed. “As I told you, I'm just the PI hired to get you out.”

_I'm also the guy hoping to become your son's boyfriend_. He had a feeling though that this would not go over well, so he held his tongue.

“Would you like to see my license?”

“I'm not sure that would help. I'm – I'm sorry, I find this hard to believe. I mean, he's your father.” He shook his head. “I'm calling Kurt.”

Blaine didn't know what was so hard to understand about the fact that his father had done something he didn't know about, or agreed with, but he was in no mood to argue. He had more pressing problems, and maybe Kurt could clear things up for his dad.

“You should leave,” he told his own father, who was still standing there, flexing his hands against his pants, a nervous habit Blaine had thankfully not inherited.

“You can't be thinking I'll just let you get away with this,” Mr Anderson said as if Blaine was the one who had committed a crime. “I'm not just going to leave and let you destroy all my plans.”

“You have no choice. If you make a fuss now, I'll call the police, no matter what Mr Hummel wants. And son or not, I won't hesitate to testify against you. I know how and why you did it, I even know who did your dirty work for you. And, if all of that doesn't convince you, I also have your gun.”

To emphasize his words, he raised the gun, and while a part of him was horrified about what he was doing – aiming a gun at his own father! - he didn't back down. Mr Anderson raised his hands and slowly went backwards to the door in a universal gesture of surrender that looked grudging but heartfelt. He felt for the door handle behind him, looking ready to bolt as soon as he was outside the room and could at least maintain some of his dignity, but there was one other thing that Blaine wanted him to know.

“By the way,” he called, causing his father to stop, his hand still on the handle. “Remember that one time when you discovered this money missing but said it was peanuts and declined to do something about it? That was me. A few times before and after, too.”

Mr Anderson gave him a look that wasn't even angry, just resigned, as if he had given up hope for his son a long time ago. Which he probably had.

“What did you do with it? I don't think you'd keep it to yourself. You think you're too noble for that.”

“The Trevor Project. All Out.” He shrugged. “Burt Hummel's campaign. There are a lot of charities that include you in their prayers.”

His father shook his head at him in disgust and turned to leave, but before he could even open the door, someone knocked. Kurt came into the room, and without giving Blaine or his father so much as a look, he immediately ran to his dad and hugged him until the older man laughed and patted him on the back.

“I can't breathe here, Kurt.”

“Sorry, sorry. I'm just so happy to have you back and – are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine. The only lasting damage is that I have eaten a lifetime's worth of chicken salad.”

Kurt hugged him again. “We have to get you home, I can't wait to see Carole's face. But wait, why didn't you go with Blaine? You could already be home!”

“So you really did hire him.” Burt nodded to himself, then shrugged. “I wasn't sure I could trust him, seeing that he's the son of the man who sat here every day, eating bacon sandwiches and insulting my political views.”

“Wait, what?” Kurt asked, looking utterly confused. Burt filled him in on the details while Blaine completely missed his chance to shoo his father out the door, hopefully never to be seen again. Instead, he stood like an idiot, listening to Burt's synopsis of the situation and watching Kurt's face.

Eventually, Burt finished talking, and Kurt looked at him with an expression he couldn't discern.

“So basically your dad had mine kidnapped?”

“Yeah.” Blaine dragged his hands over his face, suddenly tired. “Looks like it.”

“Well. That's quite a coincidence.”

It was, it really was, but one look at Kurt's face told him he didn't mean it that way. Kurt looked...angry. Accusatory.

“Yeah?” Blaine said, suddenly unsure. He had wanted Kurt to come here, certain he'd be an ally between Burt Hummel's suspicions and the derision and disdain of his own father. Someone who'd be on his side in this confusing and, to be honest, very tiring situation he had suddenly found himself in. But the way Kurt looked at him now...well, it didn't feel like he'd be that. It felt like he'd joined the other two in the brick wall of hostility that faced him.

“I think it's a little too much of a coincidence that you should uncover your own father's crime. I think you're in this together.”

That was so absurd Blaine just had to laugh, though it was on the bitter side.

“So we're a con team and he kidnaps people so I can be hired to find them, or what? Sure, that's so much more probable than anything else. Of course, that's the first thought anyone would have.”

“When I came in, you were just about to let him go! Just like that, without repercussions, without...anything!”

“Whoa, Kurt,” Burt Hummel cut in. “I think you're jumping to conclusions here. I agree that it looks a little fishy, but Blaine asked me if I wanted to get him arrested, you know, and I said no.”

Kurt stared at his father incredulously. “Why would you do that? Don't you -”

He interrupted himself with a wave of his hand. “Whatever. You know what? Let's just go home. I can't deal with any of this right now. Please. I want to go home. Blaine, I'll call you.”

Blaine was so angry he could hardly think straight. “Only when you can at least pretend to be a normal person, please. I don't want to hear anymore of your...conspiracy theories.” Angrily, he stomped outside, pushing his father before him until he left him at the foot of the stairs, rushing home to the peace and quiet of his own apartment.

* * *

 

Two days. It had been two days, and not a word from Kurt. Not a word from anyone, in fact, but that had been his own fault, as whenever his phone rang and he could see it was not Kurt calling, he hadn't picked up.

There had been something. A paycheck in his mailbox, from Burt Hummel's campaign management. Not even from Kurt personally, or even Burt, for that matter. From the damned campaign management, which somehow was the biggest humiliation of all. Five thousand dollars. Which was more than he and Kurt had agreed upon, but was also the exact sum he – or more accurately, his father, unknowingly – had donated to the campaign. He understood the message. _We don't want anything from you._ He desperately wished he could afford to tear the check into pieces and put them in an envelope addressed to Kurt. _I don't want anything from you, either._ That would be nice. But money was tight, as always, and he couldn't afford his pride.

It was a good thing there hadn't been time for anything more than that one evening of kissing. That he wasn't in too deep yet. So what if he dreamed of Kurt and the dreams left him ridiculously happy and then devastated him so much that every morning, he had to wash tears off his face? Nothing a little self-righteous anger couldn't cure.

And he was angry. So much, sometimes, that he couldn't breathe until he slammed his fist painfully into the next available surface. He'd thought – well. He'd thought they had something that was on the way of becoming something more, something good. _I guess not. Not anymore._

 

The good news was, he had a new case. Something to occupy his mind, make at least some of his thoughts go away from Kurt and to the job. Unfortunately, though, it was a young woman suspecting her boyfriend of cheating, which meant long stakeouts in his car in front of the guy's house, waiting to see what kind of visitors he had, or following him to work, to restaurants, wherever he went to see if he met someone who looked like more than a friend.

Needless to say, not his favorite thing in the world. But job was job, so he did his best to focus on the young woman sitting in one of the visitors' chairs in front of his desk and on the photo she handed him.

He couldn't help but stare a little. The man was very handsome, with blond hair and a large mouth, and the photo looked professional. Maybe following this guy would not be so much of a hardship after all.

“So, Miss...Jones, why do you think your boyfriend is cheating on you?”

“It's the usual, I guess. He calls me, says he has to work longer, that a shoot has gone wrong – he's a model – and they have to redo it, or something like that. At home, he's often distracted, not answering questions and if he does, he contradicts himself. I don't know. It's probably nothing. I feel guilty for not trusting him, but he's continually surrounded by these beautiful women, and I'm...I'm going on tour to promote my album next month, and I just want to know if I can be sure of him, you know?”

Wow. His clientele was illustrious these days. A presidential candidate, and now a singer and a model. He should charge more money.

With a last glance, he put the 4×6” glossy into the new, as yet empty manila folder and took out his notepad.

“All right, Miss Jones, please make my job easier and tell me everything that could be helpful. I need his address, his workplace, favorite places he hangs out at, anything like that.”

 

Later, after his new client had left, he began to pack his things for the first stakeout. The boyfriend had canceled a date with the excuse of having to work, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Though working was the last thing Blaine wanted to do now. He wanted to go home and sleep, as this was the only thing he lately seemed to be able to find the energy to do. He wanted to call Kurt and tell him about the new case. Kurt worked in fashion; maybe he'd even know the model? Maybe he'd be able to help? But he couldn't do that, either.

Damn Kurt. Damn, too, the confusing mixture of anger and longing he felt whenever he thought of him.

* * *

 

Stakeouts had to be the most boring job in the universe. He’d been sitting here for an hour now, with nothing happening. Nothing to see except light in one window, which meant that the guy (Steve? Sam?) had probably really been lying about having to work. Or he was working from home (could a model work from home?) or he had just forgotten to turn off the light.

Blaine was beginning to long for a beer and an early night, and was severely tempted to just drive home. He wouldn't do it, though. That would be cheating, and he never cheated about work. He needed that kind of self-discipline if he wanted to stay in business.

He had just decided to start playing Candy Crush for at least a little entertainment, keeping one eye on the house at all times, of course, when his phone beeped, indicating a new text message. His heart beat faster when he saw it was from Kurt, and without knowing what to expect or even what he wished for, he opened it, his finger trembling on the screen. Then he threw the phone on the passenger seat in anger and disgust.

_I'm sorry._

Two words. After everything, after the absurd accusations, after days of silence and the insult of the money, he got _two fucking words?_

_Too little, too late, baby._ The thought was sarcastic and nonchalant, but really he felt like crying, or shouting, or starting the engine and driving, driving until he arrived somewhere that wasn't so....here.

He did neither. Instead, he thought something else: a loud, head-filling “Fuck you”, that felt satisfying although of course it did little to help.

He was just trying to retrieve his phone to text these exact two words back to Kurt, when something actually happened.

A car pulled up into the driveway, and at the same time the boyfriend opened the front door. Blaine noticed that he was not dressed up, but that didn't have to mean that it wasn't a date, or a hookup, for that matter. He was surprised when the person getting out of the car was a young man, long-legged and slim, but most definitely male, though he couldn't see his face. So was the guy cheating on his girlfriend with a man? They certainly seemed very familiar with each other, hugging as a greeting and chatting excitedly, and then the boyfriend put his arms around the shoulders of his guest and lead him inside.

Blaine didn't want to believe his eyes. When the visitor looked familiar to him even from behind, he almost immediately dismissed the idea, telling himself he was projecting because his thoughts were constantly there anyway. But as the young man turned back for a moment to lock his car, he could see it was definitely Kurt.

Kurt was here, at the house of his new client's boyfriend, whom she suspected of having an affair. Which was – just great. How was he ever going to get over Kurt when he constantly popped up in his cases? How was he supposed to _forget_?

And had he been really replaced so fast? Had he meant anything to Kurt at all? It wouldn't have been the first time that Blaine's mind made things bigger than they were, but still....after all, Kurt had come to him, and they had made out for an evening, with the definite promise of more. He hadn't made that up, had he?

He wasn't so sure anymore. Kurt's behavior since then certainly didn't seem like that had really happened.

He had enough. At least for today, he had to get away for a while, bury himself at home and either try to wrap his mind around everything or just try and think of something else for a while. It was unprofessional, he thought as he started the engine, but that hardly mattered as his personal and professional lives seemed so wrapped up in one another these days that it was hard to tell one from the other.

He went home.

 

 

The next day, though, found him back at the same spot around lunchtime, sitting in his car with his coffee and his bagel, observing the house for exactly one reason. If he didn't find anything, if he couldn't at least shoot a few photos of the two of them to show his client, then he had to either tell her he failed, or he had to go to Kurt and directly ask him if he had an affair with the not-so- model boyfriend. And he really, really didn't want to do that. Almost anything was preferable to that, even another day wasted sitting in his car, being bored out of his mind until it got worse and he had to see Kurt hug and touch and laugh with another man.

But there was nothing, for hours. Blaine was torn between personal relief and professional frustration and was thinking about ringing the doorbell, passing himself off as a handyman and asking if he would be allowed to cut the grass (which could certainly use a good trimming) to get a closer look, when his phone rang.

Could it be....? He couldn't help hoping, but caller ID showed it was his mother. With a pang of guilt, he realized he had never called her as he had planned. He had been too wrapped up in his own misery, but the hurt and betrayal he was feeling was probably nothing compared to the way she must feel after discovering that the man she had been married to for almost thirty years wasn't the person she thought she knew.

“Hey mom,” he said after accepting the call. “Listen, I'm sorry I didn't -”

“Blaine,” she interrupted. “Be quiet and listen. I know what your father has done. He has told me, truthfully I believe because he assumed you would tell on him anyway. Needless to say, I don't approve, and he won't have an easy time at home for the next few weeks.”

She paused, and Blaine thought she was taking this really well. It was easy to mistake her for a docile housewife who had nothing to do in life except clean up after her husband and son, but she was made of much stronger stuff.

Then she continued, her voice strained. “However, I approve even less of your behavior. Does your family mean nothing to you? How could you take the side of strangers over that of your own father?”

Blaine couldn't believe what he had heard. She couldn't possibly be on his father's side in this, could she?

“Mom,” he reasoned. “He hired people to kidnap someone. He held Mr. Hummel prisoner for days!”

“I know,” she said. “But he is your father. You owe him loyalty and respect, and yet you turned on him in front of strangers, treated him like a common criminal. Not to mention that you stole from us. That isn't the way a dutiful son behaves. And I think we've put up with enough from you, what with your...lifestyle and that farce you call a job. I've decided we won't put up with anything more, and certainly not with this. So, if you can't be a loyal and dutiful son, you're not a son at all. You're not welcome anymore at our house. Don't contact us.”

 

“Mommy, don't do this,” Blaine whispered, but there was no one listening. His mother had hung up, and for a long time Blaine just sat there, not believing what had just happened. The man he was there to watch could have had a dozen strippers turn up on his doorstep, and Blaine wouldn't have seen anything. His sight was blurry from tears, and Blaine laid his forehead against the steering wheel and, for the first time in years, he cried.

* * *

 

When he woke up, it was late morning, and he felt like crap. His head hurt, his tongue felt like it was growing fur, and he was nauseous.

Also, he wasn't in his bed.

Groggily and carefully, he sat up, holding his head as if it might fall off, and honestly he wasn't quite sure it wouldn't.

Where was he? Had he picked up someone last night? He remembered that after the phone call with his mother (and he quickly suppressed the tears that were threatening to come up again at this thought), he had driven to a bar, his own small bar at home not adequate for achieving the stage of hammered he was going for. And then? He had drunk, a lot. Certainly enough to explain the hangover he had.

“Hey, man.”

Blaine groaned with pain as he turned too fast towards the voice, and saw a young man leaning against the counter of a small, open kitchen facing the couch he was sitting on. And wow, if he had really been picking up strangers last night, at least he had proven good taste. Although it was probably a pity he didn't remember anything.

On a second look, the man looked rather familiar, but he was also holding a glass of water and some aspirin, and suddenly that was everything Blaine had eyes for.

“Hey,” he said, gratefully accepting the painkillers. “Um...not to be impolite, but what am I doing here?”

“That's a long story,” the man said. “Short version is, you were very, very drunk and about to do some pretty stupid things, starting a fight with a guy twice as big and hooking up with a guy twice as old as you among them. And, well, I wanted to talk to you anyway, so I took you to my place and let you sleep here.”

“Okay.” Blaine thought about it, and from what he knew about the few occasions where he had gotten really and truly drunk, it seemed plausible. “And did we - “

He made an unambiguous gesture, moving his finger between the two of them.

“Oh! No. I'm straight, man. Sorry.”

In that moment, Blaine recognized him: he knew him from the photo his client had given him. His host was the man who was (allegedly) cheating on his girlfriend. With Kurt.

Straight. Right. Either the guy was a liar, or in serious denial.

“Right,” he said. “Sorry. Thanks for bringing me here, and everything.”

He gestured vaguely at the glass of water and the couch, and managed to rise without his head exploding. “I'll just get out of your hair now.”

“Could you...maybe stay a little, please?”

 

Not to brag, but he'd had one night stands beg him to stay afterwards, and sometimes he did. But a guy he hadn't even slept with? That was new.

“Um...why?”

“Because I'd like to talk to you. And I've a friend coming over in a bit, and he wants to talk to you, too.”

“Look, I'm grateful that you saved me last night and everything, but this is getting...a little weird. I mean, we don't even know each other.”

“I know. Sorry. Um, I'm Sam. Sam Evans.”

“Blaine Anderson.” Blaine slowly took Sam's outstretched hand and shook it, but he was still confused. And, to be honest. a little weirded out.

“Blaine, I know this must seem strange to you, but I promise I'm no serial killer or anything. Look, why don't you go take a shower or something and I fix breakfast and we talk over coffee?”

The thought of breakfast didn't really entice him to stay. On the other hand, coffee and a shower sounded really, really good.

So he accepted and stood in the shower, letting the hot water soothe him as much as possible. It was a little gross to put on his slept-in clothes again afterwards, but still, he felt a lot better. And after the night he had – from the little he remembered, trying to sleep on the unfamiliar, rather uncomfortable couch between dreams of Kurt and his mother, rejecting him all over again – he clutched at every chance of feeling better.

In the kitchen he was greeted by the delicious smell of coffee and the rather nauseating of scrambled eggs. Sam was sitting at the table, and Blaine grabbed a piece of dry toast and joined him, still feeling awkward.

This Sam – he looked like he could be a really nice guy. Not the cleverest, perhaps – inviting him in, he was a total stranger, he could be _anyone_ – but nice. Except for – well. Cheating on his girlfriend. With Kurt.

So, the way things were, Blaine couldn't wait to get out of here. And when Sam continued watching the steam rise from his coffee cup, Blaine decided to take matters into his own hands.

“So, why am I here exactly?”

Sam looked up and cleared his throat. “Right. Um – Blaine. I think, and tell me if I'm wrong, I think my girlfriend has hired you to find out if I'm cheating on her. Which I'm not.”

Whoa. That had never happened before. How did he know? Blaine was sure he had been completely inconspicuous – or maybe not. He'd hardly been on top of his game the last few days.

“Don't think you've been, like, obvious or anything. I wouldn't have noticed you at all, but, I had a friend over the other day. I think you know him, actually. And he pointed out your car to me, and told me your name, and your job.”

So Kurt had now set up to sabotage his professional life as well? What the fuck? He had done nothing to deserve this. Nothing.

He once again wanted to leave, but Sam already continued talking.

“Look, I know I've been acting...weird towards Mercedes the last few weeks. But I'm not cheating on her, I promise! She's a singer, and she's going on tour in a few weeks, and Kurt and I...we've been planning a surprise for her. Kurt's designing clothes for her, an outfit for every concert of her tour. That's why we've been meeting so much, and why she couldn't know about it. So I've always had to tell her I'm working or something. But we're almost ready. I just need you to play along for two more days. Please? Just...tell her you haven't seen anything yet, or something.”

Alright, maybe he had been wrong about Kurt this time. Maybe he hadn't wanted to sabotage Blaine, but merely to help a friend. Maybe – wait.

“Earlier, you said you had a friend coming over who wanted to talk to me. That wouldn't be Kurt, would it?”

“I don't think we have any more mutual friends. So yes, of course it's Kurt.”

Blaine rose so quickly he nearly toppled over his chair. “No. Please, I can't talk to him. I'll tell your girlfriend whatever you want, only don't make me -”

The doorbell rang. Sam grimaced and rose.

“Sorry man, I think he's already here. I'll let him in, and then I guess – I guess it's better if I just leave.”

“You can't leave me alone with him!” Blaine protested, but then it was already too late. Kurt stood there, cheeks red from the cold outside, looking at him even while hugging Sam. Blaine hid his face in his hands for a moment, then slumped down on his chair in defeat. All of this with a hangover. Great.

He didn't really look at Kurt, not even when he slowly, hesitantly, sat down and turned his chair towards him.

“Blaine.”

What did he want? Why was he even here, for fuck's sake? Why would he come seek him out when he had a hangover, and no doubt everything would just start tormenting him again right when he had been about to -

“Blaine, please. Look at me.”

He didn't want to, but his head turned to Kurt anyway, his eyes to his mortification filling with tears. He took a deep breath and then spoke before Kurt could say something. It was nothing he would have said had he given himself a chance to think about the words before.

“My mother disowned me, you know. For siding with your father against mine. I'm never going to see my parents again.”

When he looked at Kurt, his mouth stood open from shock and disbelief.

“You're...you're not serious, are you?”

“I'm serious. So you can take your – your perfect family and your self-righteousness and your weird accusations and shove them.”

“God, Blaine...I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah. Last night, I dreamed of my father reading to me, my mother tucking me in. And you kissing me. And aiming a gun at my father, and my mother telling me I'm not welcome at their house anymore, and you accusing me. Needless to say, it was not the best night I ever had, even if the springs in your friend's couch hadn't poked me in the back the whole time.”

“That's what I came here to talk to you about, actually. Me accusing you, I mean. You never answered my text, and I...I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. Really. I talked it over with my dad, and he told me what you did, how you acted before I arrived. And I now know that you...you haven't done what I accused you of. And what's more, you wouldn't have done something like that. It's not you. I'm sorry I did not trust you.”

Blaine nodded slowly. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself into Kurt's arms and be done with this whole thing – but he couldn't. There was too much going on in his head – first of all, what did Kurt want from him? Would he approve of Blaine throwing himself into his arms or would he gently push him away with a confused expression, saying something along the lines of, “It was an apology, Blaine, not a proposal”? And then – what did Blaine want? If he really, really thought about it, did he want to be with a guy who ran away at the first misunderstanding, didn't talk to him for days and then expected everything to be fine again with a meager 'I'm sorry'?

He stood up. “I'm sorry, too,” he said. “Tell Sam I'll try to keep Mercedes from finding out, and that we'll have to arrange something about my pay.”

Then he turned towards the door.

“Blaine, please stay. Can't we talk?”

Slowly, he turned. There was a part of him that enjoyed this, enjoyed having Kurt call after him, seeking him out. The other, considerably larger part though was still unbelievably angry and likely to remain so for some time at least. He still was close to tears and wanted nothing more than to get out of here.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, hating to hear his voice shake. Kurt had stood up and was walking towards him. No way he could have Kurt touching him now, so he backed away until his back hit the door. Although Kurt stopped long before he would touch him, Blaine felt trapped.

“I understand you're angry,” Kurt said. “But can't you understand my point of view even a little? You have to admit that it looked weird, you and your father 'by chance' involved in the same case...”

Blaine could hear the quotation marks, everyone would have.

“Try not to be an asshole for once, okay?” he said, feeling to his terror the first tear running down his cheek. “At first, perhaps. I could've understood some doubt, maybe you asking me about it, but you attacked me, Kurt. When I had just found your father and threatened mine with a gun. For you.”

With that, he opened the door and walked out.

 

The good feeling about his dramatic exit lasted for about ten minutes. Then, in his car on the way home, the doubt set in, and the little voice in his head that wouldn't shut up, saying, “What if you just destroyed every chance with Kurt?”

Which in itself was weird. Before he met Kurt, he hadn't been looking for someone. He was comfortable with flirting and the occasional hookup. More, he found, often lead to complications he didn't want. His job offered excitement enough, at least when it didn't require him to spent hours in a car, waiting for bored housewives to jump the pool boy between watching daytime TV and picking the kids up from school. He had never had the feeling that something was missing from his life.

But now? Now he did.

And, well. What was that again about the complications? Because no sooner had he found the something that had been missing, things had started to get more complicated than any case could ever be.

And now? Kurt did not have an affair with a model. Which should be good news, only it almost didn't matter because he still was so angry and hurt he was hardly able to look Kurt in the eyes, not to mention contemplate a relationship with him.

And yet, he wanted to.

 

The next two days, he had a few increasingly awkward conversations with his client Miss Jones in which he tried to convince her that anything he saw Sam do was entirely innocent. He himself might feel like his heart got broken again and again every day (and God, just listen to him. Who'd have thought he'd have a tendency to be that dramatic?), but he wouldn't do that to Mercedes. He wouldn't let her spend two days believing Sam cheated on her if he could help it.

The time in between, he spent thinking. Or maybe thinking wasn't the right word for what he was doing. More like, agonizing. Because he found that he missed Kurt. Which was absurd, because they hadn't spent that much time together, and that had been spent mostly researching and plotting how to find Burt.

And, well, kissing. That, too.

Still, he missed him, and not only the kissing. When he couldn't sleep at night, he itched to just pick up his phone and call him. It would be so simple, but the way he felt, it could just as well be the most difficult thing in the world. And the worst thing was that Kurt would probably welcome a call from him. That it was only himself who was preventing him. And yet, that was as great an obstacle as any he could think of.

Tomorrow was the day of the debate, the day of their first date. And suddenly, the idea of not going was almost unbearable.

* * *

 

Sam called him in the morning to tell him that they had pulled an all-nighter and had the first outfit ready to show to Mercedes, and to ask if he wanted to be there when they told her.

“No thanks,” Blaine answered. He didn't really feel like happy-couple hugs and kisses and thank you's and apologies for not trusting enough.

“That's okay,” Sam said. “I think Kurt'll only stop by for a moment and then go back home. Listen, Kurt feels really bad. I could tell. He had rings under his eyes even before we decided we couldn't afford sleep if we wanted to finish. I don't know what's going on with the two of you, but could you....perhaps make up or something? If you don't, I'm not going to see Mercedes at all the next few weeks because she'll always be at Kurt's place to watch 'The Notebook' with him.”

“I'm promising nothing,” Blaine said. “But I'll think about it.”

He was tired of being angry. He kind of still was, but he didn't want to be anymore, and in the end, it didn't matter. He just had to decide if he was angry enough to keep Kurt out of his life for good, or if he missed him so much he could let go of his anger and try again.

To be honest, it wasn't even really a question anymore.

So, at five pm., he stood outside Kurt's apartment, freshly showered and groomed and his whole bedroom at home a mess of discarded clothes. He'd gotten ready in a frenzy, never allowing himself time to think, but now that he was already here, he nearly chickened out. The door seemed like an insurmountable barrier, the doorbell miles away.

But apparently, it wasn't. Suddenly, the door opened, revealing Kurt with a tentative smile on his face.

“I thought I saw your car,” he said. “Please...please, come in?”

Blaine didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything, really, as his heart seemed to have relocated itself in his throat and blocked all air. But he stepped over the threshold and through the door.

The place was small, but cozy. Blaine looked around in a sort of daze as Kurt busied himself hanging up his coat and getting drinks.

Then they sat on the couch, an awkward distance between them, turned towards each other but not talking. The TV was on but muted, showing what were probably interviews with the candidates before the debate. Kurt took the remote and turned it off.

“Blaine, I'm so glad you're here. I...I wanted to tell you again I'm so sorry. I should never have treated you that way.”

“I won't say it's okay,” Blaine said. “Because you're right, you shouldn't have. But I don't want to be angry anymore. It probably won't happen again, at least not in the same way, and it needn't have anything to do with how we see each other in the future. Which is kind of what I wanted to ask.”

“What do you mean?” Kurt asked, his voice warm and full of relief and...something else?

“We were...on our way to something, I think, before all of this. I guess I'd like to know if you – you know, if you'd like to...go there.”

“Would – would you?” Kurt asked.

“Well,” Blaine said, suddenly much more confident. That had been hope in Kurt's voice, he was sure.

“Today was supposed to be our first real date, watching your dad's debate together. And – well, as you see, I'm here.”

Suddenly, Kurt rose. Confused, Blaine watched him walk across the room to a dresser and rummage through a drawer. Then he triumphantly held up two candles, set them on the table in front of Blaine and lit them.

“I know I said it wouldn't be a very romantic first date, but we can do our best, I think, to at least create an atmosphere.”

Blaine felt a smile take over his whole face.

“So you want to?” he asked, feeling breathless.

Kurt nodded, smiling just as wide as Blaine imagined he himself did. “I was hoping – the whole day, I was hoping you'd come here tonight. Give me one more chance, even if I don't deserve it. Even just to be friends, I would have been content with that. Tried to, at least. But – I missed you, I really did, everything about you, about us, and – if you want this to be a date, then this is a date.”

Blaine felt happy, giddy with excitement, but suddenly, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to kiss Kurt, but it seemed too early for that (didn't you do it at the end of the date, usually? It had been a while since his last date, and he wanted to do it right). So he just smiled some more, leaned back, took a sip from his drink, and asked,

“How did Mercedes react?”

“Oh, you know. As expected. Full of guilt that she didn't trust Sam enough to know he wouldn't cheat on her, a little ridiculous because she even went as far as to let him be watched, and happy. She gave my clothes the proper appreciation, too. She and Sam are really happy together, and I think they'll make it, even when Mercedes is gone for a few months.”

He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip as he thought.

“Blaine?” he said. “I just – I just want to say that I normally wouldn't react the way I did in that hotel room? For example, if we were in a relationship and I thought you cheated on me, I wouldn't set a PI on you, I'd try to talk to you about it. I wouldn't attack you the way I did then, usually. I want you to know that. It was just a really stressful week.”

Blaine grinned. “If I wanted to cheat on you – and I won't, just to be clear - no PI you'd hire would catch me, I know all the hiding places, all of their tricks, and I'm better than any of them.”

He got serious, hesitating for a moment before taking Kurt's hand.

“I'm glad to hear that, though. I think that what bugged me the most and kept me away from you for so long was the thought that whenever there'd be trouble, you'd just attack me without listening to anything I have to say, and then run away.”

“I won't,” Kurt promised, and Blaine thought that somehow, they'd gone from speaking about the possibility of dating to talking about it as a certainty. He liked it, and was just gathering the courage to share his observation with Kurt, when there was a beeping noise from an alarm clock.

“Oh!” Kurt said, quickly silencing his phone. “I set an alarm. The debate is about to start. Do you mind if we -”

He gestured towards the TV.

“Not at all,” Blaine said, though politics couldn't be further from his mind right now. “Go ahead.”

Burt Hummel appeared on the screen, looking smart in a suit and not the worse for wear for having been imprisoned in a crappy hotel room for a few days. And suddenly, Blaine couldn't bear it anymore. He put his hand on Kurt's jaw, causing him to turn his head, looking at him.

“I know you want to watch that,” he said. “But can I kiss you first?”

Kurt smiled and tilted his head invitingly, and Blaine leaned in and kissed him, gently, just a lingering press of his lips against Kurt's. Kurt kissed back, but it seemed hesitant, almost timid.

“Come on, Kurt,” Blaine whispered. “You've got to give me something here.”

Kurt smiled against his lips, and then Kurt's hands were on his face, and his mouth was back on his, and there was nothing timid about this kiss at all. It wasn't hesitant either, or gentle, for that matter, and when they came up for air, Blaine found himself half-lying on the couch, panting, Kurt hovering above him.

Kurt seemed to look for something, patting around on the couch behind them, and then he held the remote in his hand.

“Don't tell my dad,” he said. “But we're not going to watch the debate.”

 

The End


End file.
